


His Escape

by Chikita



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Family Loss, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kageyama Tobio Angst, Kageyama's Middle School Trauma, Manga Spoilers (Chapter 387), Mostly Canon Compliant, Platonic Soulmates probably, Present Tense, Referenced depression, Sad Kageyama Tobio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chikita/pseuds/Chikita
Summary: Tobio tries to move on after the loss of his primary caretaker and the disaster that was his third year of middle school.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Kageyama Tobio
Comments: 4
Kudos: 119





	His Escape

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much just Broken Pieces reloaded but with extra context from the manga, hopefully better written though because the latter didn’t have the best characterization.
> 
> Chapter 387 ruined me in the best possible way and gave me so many angst feels it's unreal.

After his grandfather's death, Tobio copes in his own way. Volleyball doesn't bring him the same joy anymore, doesn't make his heart leap every time he touches the ball. But it helps. It keeps him grounded in reality, soothes the worst of the pain and gives him a purpose. When everyone was talking about him being a prodigy, a _genius,_ what they really meant was that. Probably. He doesn't have any friends, his family is broken, and he's doing bad in school with abysmal grades he can't force himself to care about. As always, the only thing left for him is volleyball.

So he carries on. He takes the sport more seriously than ever, sets his goals high to follow everyone's expectations. He spends all of his free time exercising, sprinting down the road alone until he's out of breath, practicing serves until his hands can't feel the ball anymore.

He's changed during the last months. His nerves are stretched thin whenever he's practicing with his middle school team, and each passing day it gets worse. A butchered serve, an opponent's spike that could've been blocked, a toss that went nowhere, every little thing sets him off, makes him lash out and rage and yell at his teammates for not taking volleyball, a sport that means everything to him, as seriously as he does. He doesn't get why they won't just take that extra step, jump a little higher, run a little faster, when he's doing all of that, _constantly._ He wants to win, desperately, wants to go to nationals and even further.

Every point in every single match, he fights like it's a matter of life or death. The more effort he puts into his play, the more frustrated he gets when his teammates won't comply, when things aren't working out, when he _himself_ starts breaking under the pressure of his own perfectionism. It's not fun anymore. Not like it used to be. A deep frown is plastered on his face, like an iron mask he can't take off. But he keeps playing, keeps chasing after the fleeting shots of endorphin, of pride, whenever his team scores a point. It keeps him going, makes up for the restless nights and hours spent in empty silence. It makes him forget, and that’s enough.

All of that comes crashing down on him in scorching hot waves near the end of a match in his third year of middle school. The ball drops onto the hard floor with an ugly, taunting echo, followed by deafening silence. His toss wasn't met. This wasn't just a regular mistake, but cold, hard _refusal_. Everyone has turned their backs on him. _Everyone._ His blood runs cold when the weight of the moment dawns on him. Flooded with shock and disbelief, he wants to apologize, but he doesn't even know where to start. He's screwed up. He knows it.

The coach sends him off to the bench and he obeys without a word, lump in his throat and tongue tied from the numbness that starts to take over his brain. There, he sits down, draping a towel over his head to block his view on the court where the match is in its dying moments. He curls up into himself, and almost instantly, starts shivering, not sure if it's from exhaustion, the sweat drying on his skin, or something else. And he can't _stop,_ his hands shaking even when he grips his knees, knuckles turning white from the strain. The referee blows the whistle, ending the match and the sound of it continues to ring in his ears, minutes after everyone has left.

That afternoon, he walks home in a trance, moving on autopilot as if his brain was wiped clean of every recent memory. He hasn’t said goodbye to anyone, not to his coach and not to his teammates, even though it had been the last time they stood on the same court, wearing the same uniform. When he gets home, everything is dark and quiet. His parents are at work, his father on one of his business trips and his mother working a night shift, his sister staying at the dorm of her college. Nobody's there. Nobody's there to pester him about the results of the match, and maybe that's for the better. He's ashamed, _humiliated,_ the harsh rejection chafing at his pride, but most of all he feels lost. _Confused._

He goes through his usual evening routine. Showering, brushing his teeth, putting his dirty clothes in the laundry, only skipping dinner as he feels like he wouldn't be able to keep anything down.

At nine, he lies awake in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, the match playing through his mind like a recorder on repeat. _What now?_ That's the first thing he asks himself. He tries to not think about all the mistakes he made to get into this mess, his short temper, his lack of tact and social skills, his inability to understand people's feelings, but he _does._ He thinks about all of that. His worst flaws, things he simply can't wrap his head around, his selfish desire to play.

The guilt is nothing compared to the sadness, the _grief_ that starts to envelop him like a dark, stormy cloud. Up until that point, his life has been saturated with disappointments. His sister quitting volleyball, then moving out after graduating, the bullying in school, his teammates never wanting to stay for extra practice, and then worst of all, the death of the only person who understood and truly accepted him. If only his grandfather were _here_ right now. He'd know what to do. Maybe, if he'd been there this whole time, things would've turned out differently, a different ending to a different story. He would've caught him before he could trip and fall as deep as he did, hold his hand and guide him through the upcoming storm.

But he's not and he won't ever come back. The reality of it is stabbing like a thousand needles made out of hot iron. It's fitting since there's no way Tobio will get those three years back either.

Tobio barely notices the wetness on his cheeks but when he does, he's surprised. When had he been crying for the last time? He wants to stop, a hand crawling up to find his face in the dark, furiously rubbing at his eyes. The tears keep on coming, spilling over like a full glass under a running tap. All the feelings of loss and sorrow and grief he's kept bottled up inside since the day of his grandfather's passing, all of that comes pouring out like a river. He chews on his lip to keep his voice down, as if anyone could even _hear_ his sobs right here.

His chest aches, his nose is stuffed and it's gross, but with every passing second he, strangely, feels a little less terrible, the clouds around him lifting only enough to show a small ray of sunlight. Not blinded by anger born out of suppressed emotions, his mind is clearer than before.

It’s true. He may be alone, but he still has volleyball. Even now. With all the pain and hardships it has caused, he still loves the sport with every fiber of his being. He loves the smell of the gym, the colors, the noise of the ball slamming onto the opponent's court. The feeling is pure and raw and _real,_ and he wants to keep playing, start all over with a new team in high school, move on from his disastrous third year and into a better future.

He wants to be good. Be free and happy. It's what his grandfather would've wanted for him.

With a newborn flame lighting up his soul, he gets up from his bed. Slowly, he walks over to his closet, pulls out a hoodie, a pair of sweatpants and an old, worn down volleyball. After leaving his bedroom, he slips into his trainers and steps out through the back door into the cool air of the night. It’s dark outside, but the descending moon spends a tiny amount of light.

He’s standing on the same spot he was standing as a child years ago, tossing the ball back and forth between him, his sister and grandfather. The air had been filled with laughter, yelling and playful, good-natured teasing. Tobio can still hear their voices clear and vivid in his head.

He spins the ball in his hands, feels the warm, comforting weight of the chapped leather on his fingertips. After taking a deep, shaky breath to prepare himself, he throws the ball up into the air. His instincts make his eyes follow its movements and he goes for a run-up, his feet kicking the hardened soil as he jumps. Once he has his target locked, he channels all of his pain, his fears and regrets into the object in his field of vision. He lunges out and hits the ball with all of his power, harder than he has ever hit any ball before, yelling out into the night.

The impact makes a loud, cracking noise. There’s a dog barking in the far distance, but other than that, it’s silent. Tobio comes back down from his jump, stumbling before finding his footing on the ground. His chest is heaving with quick, choppy breaths, heart hammering against his ribcage. It hurts, but this time he allows it to hurt, allows himself to weep and cry without restraint until he has no tears left. It _works._ It lifts the crushing weight off him, and after a few more blinks, the pain subsides. His eyes are stinging, his throat sore but he feels light inside, almost weightless.

A gust of wind blows in his face, tousling his sweaty hair and rattling the leaves on the trees. It should be cold, but it’s warm. Familiar. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, allows the warmth to envelop him in a tight embrace and dry the rest of his tears.

Life goes on. Even after losing the most important person of his life. Even after his team’s betrayal. There has to be a way out for sure. An escape out of the shadows of his past.

_Somewhere._

It’s several weeks later, after a lonely graduation ceremony and a new start at a high school he’d never planned to go to. Tobio is filled with hope, that this time will be better, but he can't help being wary. Afraid to get too attached, to mess up and have everyone leave him again. But then there's this one person, a short spiker with a mop of bright orange hair, a loud voice and way too much energy for his own good. A clumsy runt, who worms himself into his life and demands his attention, loud and ambitious and _fearless._ Tobio doesn’t know what to make of him, and he’s irritated by his mere presence on the court. They’re too different, no way they would ever get along.

But then his doubts waver when the spiker doesn’t back down an inch, keeps up with him even after he tests him cruelly, aiming serve after serve into his arms, pushing them both to their limits. His first toss after the one that cemented his downfall in middle school goes to that new person. Hinata Shouyou. The boy leaps up high into the air, smashes the ball over the net, and then he’s _glowing._ His face is radiating the same innocent, unfiltered _joy_ Tobio remembers feeling as a child when there were no expectations placed on him, no pressure, no judgment. Only the desire to go further and play, more and more and _more._

His heart flutters with those very familiar emotions, and for the first time in _years,_ he smiles. He’s forgotten how it feels, and it’s almost embarrassing, but he lets it happen. It feels like home. After all the pain he went through, the losses and rejections of middle school, he has finally found that special person he’s been waiting for his entire life. His match, his partner, his way out of the shadows.

_His escape._

**Author's Note:**

> Come and cry with me about tragic past Tobio.


End file.
